


Call Me Maybe

by Myrime



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Chicken Soup, Don't copy to another site, Family, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Overwhelmed Tony Stark, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Single Dad Tony Stark, Steve saves the day, Sweet Steve Rogers, dad tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 00:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20106508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: When Peter falls sick, single dad Tony is hopelessly overwhelmed. He is told he needs chicken soup. Surely the super hot stranger living next door will have some. And Steve, being an all-around good guy has no idea how to make chicken soup either but delivers nonetheless. Meanwhile, Peter, even while he can hardly leave his bed, manages to play matchmaker, because clearly his dad does not know how to get any on his own.





	Call Me Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Another entry for the [Iron Man Bingo 2019 Round 2](https://iron-man-bingo.tumblr.com/), square: Dad!Tony + Sick Kid
> 
> Enjoy!

Peter’s fever is rising. At the same time, Tony’s adrenaline level has never been higher. These two things have nothing to do with each other, of course. Tony knows exactly what he is doing. _Not_.

The day before, the school had called about Peter not feeling so well. Tony broke several traffic laws on his way there and had a minor panic attack before he could get out of the car, but Peter had greeted him with a weak smile and a hug. Everything had still been fine then.

Now, Peter’s forehead feels like the wrong end of a soldering iron. He has vomited several times, holds his belly like it is going to split open any second now, and has not moved a single toe out of bed unless to go to the bathroom. Where Peter is usually a lively kid, full of energy, he is now listless and deathly pale.

Tony does not know what to do. They have been to the ER and gotten some pills, which helped them through the night, but Tony feels like it is constantly getting worse. It is heart-breaking to see his son in such a state.

At the same time, he remembers all the sneering articles about what a bad father he will be when the press first found out that he has a son and was going to raise him alone. It was not as bad as it could have been, since he is not half as public a figure anymore than he had been in his youth and before he made Pepper his CEO, but it only added to his own reservations about the matter. For the most part, they are doing well. Only now does Tony wish that he had someone to guide him. Jarvis perhaps, or Ana.

There is one person he goes to with all of his problems, trusting her to solve them – and she usually delivers.

Raising slowly from the armchair he has pushed into Peter’s room to better watch over his kid, Tony gets out his phone and walks into the kitchen. After he puts the kettle on the stove to make fresh tea, he dials Pepper’s number. Dutiful as she is, she picks up after the first ring.

“Where are you?” she asks by way of greeting.

A glance at the clock tells Tony that it is past ten in the morning. Instead of not even a day, it feels like he has been wrangling with Peter’s sickness for months.

“Pepper,” he says, ignoring her question, “you’re a woman.”

The silence that hits him is as brief as it is icy. “You had better think very well about how you’re going to end that statement.”

Tony loves Pepper. She is scary and efficient and has put up with him for longer than anybody else except for Rhodey. Usually, he would not pass the chance for a little ribbing between friends, but he has more pressing matters to deal with.

“Peter is sick.” Saying the words has a shiver running down his back as if there is a chance he is going to lure more germs in to wreak havoc in his home. “I have no idea what to do. Surely you know something.”

Admitting this hurts, but Tony is far beyond pride. He always has been where it comes to Peter.

“Because I’m a woman?” Pepper’s voice is openly sceptic, but underneath Tony can hear the same uncertainty that has kept him up all night.

He momentarily forgot that part of what makes Pepper so scarily efficient is that she lives for her job. Neither of them has actually seen themselves having a family of their own in the future.

“Come on,” Tony begs. “I’ll buy you a hundred shoes if you stop twisting my words around and help me.”

She is his only chance. Rhodey might know more, considering that he has a number of younger sisters, but he is on some mission and they have not talked in a while. Tony could probably get a call through, but Rhodey does not like it when Tony so blatantly breaks the rules. If there is no other way, he will do it without hesitation, though.

“I’m not a mother, Tony,” Pepper says slowly, sounding as if she is physically distancing herself from that possibility. “I don’t know what to do with sick children. Have you been to the doctor?”

Tony is too exhausted to roll his eyes, but it might be better that way. Somehow, Pepper always hears when he is getting cheeky, even when she has no way of seeing what he does.

“Of course,” he says shortly. “They gave me something for the fever and cough syrup.” Peter had even taken the syrup without complaint, which has only made Tony’s worry worse. If it still tastes the way he remembers, it is vile. “But – _Pepper_.”

She makes a small noise at the back of her throat that might have made Tony laugh at any other time. Never before has she sounded out of depth. He would have even thought it impossible.

“I don’t – have you tried chicken soup?” she asks, clearly grasping for straws.

“_Chicken soup?_” Tony repeats aghast. “What’s that supposed to do? He’s really sick.”

Actually, the doctor had said something about the common cold, but they have clearly misinterpreted the situation, considering the state Peter is in. There is nothing _common_ about his child lying listlessly in bed, slowly burning up.

“I don’t know.” Pepper’s voice is higher than it is supposed to be, but Tony blames it on the reception. Otherwise, he might have to admit that she does not have any idea what to do either. That is something that has never happened before. “I remember getting chicken soup as a child and I survived. You can always try.”

Trying does not seem enough when it comes to Peter, but Tony does not actually see any other options. “I think I will.” At the very least, it gives him something to do other than watching Peter sleep.

“Good,” Pepper exhales audibly. In a far more composed voice she continues, “I expect you’re not coming to the office for the next days?”

Business is something safe to stick to, Tony can appreciate that. At the same time, he thinks Pepper must have clearly missed the direness of his situation. “My kid is sick,” he says slowly

“He’ll get better,” she offers with more confidence than Tony imagines she feels. “Call when you need anything else.”

He will, he always does.

Belatedly, Tony asks, “Where do I get chicken soup?” but Pepper has already hung up. Since Tony does want to admit how very bad he is at this whole father thing, he does not call her back about something that likely ever other person in this city knows.

Putting the phone down on the kitchen counter, Tony turns to their fridge, opening it despite being peripherally aware of what is in there and knowing for a fact they have _never_ owned chicken soup in the whole time they have been living here, perhaps ever.

Restless, Tony wanders back to Peter’s room, only to find him still asleep. Putting a gentle hand on the small forehead, Tony finds it still hot and sweaty. Muttering something, Peter pushes against the touch, then settles back into the cushions. It leaves Tony restless.

Walking to the kitchen again, he picks up his phone to search for chicken soup recipes, despite knowing he is not going to attempt it. He cannot go out to buy groceries and leave Peter alone, and even if he had the ingredients delivered, he does not want to accidentally poison his son with a bodged first attempt.

Just when he is wondering whether he could order one of his employees to bring him soup – there are so many, one of them has to know how to do this correctly – when he has the idea of asking his neighbours.

It is the middle of the day, which might turn out to be a problem. Tony still throws a short look at the mirror in the hallway to make sure he is more or less presentable – it is definitely _less,_ considering that his hair sticks up in several directions and he has bags under his eyes, not to speak of the wrinkled state of his clothes, which might still be the same ones he wore to the office the day before – and ventures out of their apartment. He leaves their door open in case Peter wakes up and calls for him, even though he does not plan on staying out for long. 

He tries the two apartments one floor down first because he knows two couples live there, one of which has a child on their way

Tony leaves the other door on their floor for last. He knows who is living there, and whether he will be successful in his quest or not, he has hoped to make a better first impression with the inhabitant than to come knocking in a frenzy and ask for chicken soup of all things.

He is surprised when the door opens. Through all of Tony’s completely coincidental observing, he knows that the man living here has an erratic schedule. He goes on a run every morning but that is where all regularity ends. Tony does not do well with schedules either, of course, although he has gotten a lot better since getting a child.

Then he has no more time to think, because the door is fully open and light floods the hallway. Steve Rogers – whose name Tony totally only just read on the nameplate and did not know beforehand through a minor case of stalking – looks gorgeous. He is wearing a horribly outdated plaid shirt but still manages to make it look good thanks to his unapologetic mass of muscles. It sports what looks like paint stains, splattered dots and streaks of all colours that also cover his skin. Tony fights the urge to reach out and test whether they are still fresh.

This is not the time for indulging his secret crush, though. He is on a mission and it is a vital one. 

“Hey, I’m Tony. Your neighbour. Which you probably know, because we’ve been sharing the floor for a while, and you seem like the type to notice that,” Tony says, or rambles, really.

It makes him wonder how he ever manages to string two complete sentences together during business meetings. Then again, he does not want to sleep with most of his business partners – _not _that he necessarily wants to sleep with Steve, he is just very nice to look at and Tony has done a lot of looking when Steve comes home sweaty after his morning runs.

“I need –” he stops, tries again, “Do you have chicken soup?”

Steve stares at Tony. It is not the kind of aghast or disgusted stare he might have for something dead in the street he accidentally stepped in. It is more flabbergasted, overwhelmed. Tony knows he can have that effect, but he is usually in an expensive three-piece suit and sunglasses when he does, dialling the Stark charm up to ten.

“I – don’t think so,” Steve says slowly, still not looking away from Tony. His lips are slightly tipped upwards, though, and he has not yet backed away, so Tony counts that as a good sign. “Do you want to come in while I have a look?”

Before Tony can realize that his gorgeous neighbour has just invited him into his apartment, he clicks his tongue. “You should know whether you have chicken soup. That’s like an essential part of every household, right?”

Tony bites the inside of his cheek. Hard. At some point, he is really going to have to learn some manners. And to think before he speaks. Running a hand through his hair, he blinks up at Steve apologetically.

“Sorry, that was rude,” he tries again. “I’d love to come in. I mean, who wouldn’t? But I can’t. I need to go back. Peter has a thing with feeling abandoned. Especially when he’s not feeling well.” Pointing at the other door on their floor, he adds, “We’re in 4A. Come knocking if you find any soup.”

This time, he is telling the complete truth, almost too much of it to feel comfortable. Peter is afraid of being left behind, though, ever since his mother died and he was left with just his overwhelmed father. They are doing well, most of the time, and Tony does not miss the overnight stays he used to do so often for business meetings, but it is still hard to swallow that Peter, at his young age, is already afraid of something that cannot be explained away as one might monsters under the bed.

Tony shrugs helplessly and is already turning around, when Steve asks, “Who’s Peter?”

Normally, Tony loves talking about Peter. He is as proud a father as possible. Right now, getting back to his kid is more important.

“Currently a pint-sized bundle of germs and vomit,” Tony explains shortly. “I’d lie and say he’s normally cute, but he’s a menace. Must have gotten that from me.”

Steve regards him with a smile that is as bright as it is gentle. “I’ll bring the soup,” he promises, and Tony is not going to argue that Steve seemed rather convinced he does not have any soup just moments ago. He will take what he can get.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Tony says and hurries back home.

* * *

For the next hours, they hear nothing from Steve Rogers, and Tony does his best to push down the heartbreak of having trusted his crush and having been disappointed by him. Peter is awake by now, and every cough of his brings Tony closer to just order some soup from the nearest Thai restaurant. Surely that will count too.

They are playing a very slow round of cards on Peter’s bed, interrupted by Tony trying to coax Peter into drinking more tea and taking more cough syrup, when the doorbell rings.

Tony frowns in the direction of the hallway, then glances back at his cards. It is not going to be Steve – nobody needs hours to look through their fridge for soup – and he does not want to deal with anybody else. Everyone important has a key anyway.

He plays his next card but looks up when Peter does not do the same.

“Don’t you want to get that?” Peter asks, gesturing to the door.

In the face of that question, Tony does not want to admit his reluctance to go. Appearing too worried about Peter will not do. Parents, or so he guesses, should appear confident about what they are doing.

“Will you be all right?” Tony asks nonetheless.

He is glad to see Peter roll his eyes. That hopefully means he is not getting worse. “You’re just going to the door, Dad.”

Tony nods and gets to his feet. “All right, I’ll be back in a minute.” He makes a show of putting his cards face-down on the bedsheet. “And don’t you cheat, I’m already going easy on you.”

Peter’s hand, that has already been inching closer to Tony’s cards, stills. “You’re not going easy on me. You’re just bad at cards.”

With a gasp, Tony raises his hand to his chest, clutching his rumpled shirt. “How can you say that? My own flesh and blood.”

He is rewarded with a tiny smile, and treasures it above everything else. 

On his way to the door, Tony tries to smooth down his clothes and hair, but guesses he is just making things worse. The next time Peter sleeps, he should probably take a shower and change into something more suitable for lounging around at home, waiting for a catastrophe to hit.

When he opens the door, Tony is rewarded by a second look at Steve Rogers from close up. He is wearing clean clothes now, no paint splatters in sight, but which also seem a size too small. Perhaps it is his aesthetic, and Tony is definitely not going to protest it.

“Sorry for taking so long,” Steve greets him, looking somewhat sheepish as he holds out his hands to offer a pot to Tony.

“That smells heavenly. Did you – wait.” With some delay, Tony notices that _pot_ only fits in the most generic of senses. The thing is a dented monstrosity of fading colours and nauseating patterns. “How old are you? Why do you own such garishly coloured pots? With flowers?”

Distantly, Tony thinks he should be wondering more about the fact that Steve is here with an actual pot instead of some jar or plastic bag. Even at the first glance, there is more effort involved than Tony wanted Steve to make. This does not look like he found any chicken soup in his fridge after all, but actually went out to get it.

“It’s not mine,” Steve says, a small grin playing on his lips as he regards the pot in his hands. “My friend’s grandmother lives around the corner. She whipped something up for you.”

Tony is unable to do anything but stare, not sure whether he has understood Steve correctly. “Are you telling me this is real, handmade chicken soup? And that you went to a real grandmother to get it?” He has no idea how much work goes into making this soup but it is probably too much for a random stranger manically knocking at one’s door. “Wait,” he then says, not yet reaching for the pot, “you’re not one of those crazy serial killers who lie their way into honest people’s home by bringing them poisoned soup, right?”

Steve’s laugh hits him by surprise. It is a melodic sound that Tony would not mind hearing every day.

“I’d say I’m not,” Steve says, followed by a one-armed shrug. “Things might look differently if I had actually tried to cook this soup on my own.”

That is understandable but does not explain anything. Tony lets his eyes wander from the pot up the very nice arms that are holding it to Steve’s earnest face waiting for an answer.

“Then why?” Tony questions, wondering why he does not take the soup and make sure to be more eloquent when he goes to bring the pot back to Steve, possibly with a good wine and aspirations to turn it into a date. However, all thoughts of romance are sucked out of him by the sick child waiting for him inside the apartment.

Steve smiles. “You looked desperate.” He shows no strain from continually holding the pot.

Under different circumstances, Tony might have protested that statement. He is far beyond holding on to his pride, though. “I _am _desperate,” he says with surprising vehemence and finally takes the pot out of Steve’s hand and balances on his hip. “Peter’s always been healthy. I have no idea what to do.”

It is cathartic to say that, even to a stranger, but Tony still hopes Peter is not listening in on them from his bedroom. That would defy the whole ‘parents know best’ paradigm they are still sticking to.

A small frown creases Steve’s forehead as he looks at where Tony’s hands cradle the pot before they travel up and find his face. “This might be a tad forward, since we don’t know each other –”

“I kinda know you,” Tony interrupts, afraid of what Steve is going to say. “I ogle you each morning when you go on your run.” He bites his cheek again. What is it with him and running his mouth in front of people he finds attractive? “This – is not appropriate to say to strangers. I’m so sorry. I haven’t slept in three days. At least.”

Because before Peter fell sick, Tony had busied himself with a project, forgetting all about the basic needs his very human body has. That has gotten much better over the past years, but old habits die hard. 

To both their surprise, Steve chuckles. “It’s all right.” Tony feels like he needs to propose on the spot. “What I was saying, I could help? I mean, I don’t have children, but I’ve been sick pretty much my entire childhood, so I might just know enough to make things a bit easier on you.”

Everything in Tony wants to say yes. Well, everything but the small part of his brain dedicated to common sense. He has a sick child inside. Even though Steve says he wants to help, Tony would be agreeing because he has an embarrassingly giant crush on his neighbour, not because of his supposed expertise in surviving childhood sicknesses.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Tony says, trying to refuse subtly.

“You didn’t ask,” Steve protests softly, “I offered.”

That is just unfair. Tony does not do well with temptation. Still, he inclines his head apologetically. “Peter does not do well with strangers.”

“Tony,” Steve says, his smile never dropping. “Just say no. I’ll leave you my number.” With complete nonchalance, Steve pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket with his number on it in a loopy scrawl. He definitely came prepared, which has Tony feeling less like he has just messed up his chances. “Write if you need more soup. Or anything else.”

Tony is still dazed from the recent developments when he makes his way to Peter’s room with a bowl full of steaming soup. He cannot imagine how he managed to not send Steve running immediately. The small paper with Steve’s number on it is already safely tucked away on Tony’s desk, and he has, naturally, already saved it in his phone. He will not risk losing it.

Peter is sitting up in his bed, Tony’s cards lying apparently untouched in front of him. Tony does not trust him one bit. Either way, he puts the bowl down carefully on the nightstand and presses the spoon into Peter’s hand without question.

“I don’t want soup,” Peter says, eyeing the bowl with trepidation. The nausea has passed at some point during the night, but the memory of throwing up is still very present.

“Shush, kiddo,” Tony says brightly as he lowers himself back onto the bed. “An actual angel brought this. Blonde, tall, gorgeous.”

Immediately, Peter’s eyes narrow at him. It might be a flaw of character, but Tony has never hidden the fact that it is okay to fancy people, even though he does not bring strangers home with him, of course. He barely has any opportunities for this anyway, since he has become rather conservative since he has taken to being a father.

“Are you talking about our neighbour?” Peter asks with a small grin but also open incredulity. The disbelief might not be that displaced, since Tony has been watching Steve for a while now and has never done anything about it.

“It sounds like you’re pulling through if you can already sass your old man again,” Tony chides gently. He makes no secret out of the relief he feels at seeing some liveliness returning into his son’s features.

Not very subtly, Peter puts the spoon down on his blanket. “You should just ask him out.”

Even while he is thinking of Steve’s number waiting in his phone, Tony still says, “I might have ruined my chances today.” He had been terribly rude, a frantic mess. No one could find that attractive. It is likely that Steve really only left his number in case Tony needs help with Peter after all. He seems like the kind of person who would be nice like that.

“You know what they teach us in school?” Peter asks with as much dryness as an eight-year-old can muster. “Words help.”

Despite himself, a short bout of laughter passes over his lips, before he schools his expression into something appropriately serious.

“Careful, young man. Now eat.” As an afterthought, he adds, “If you eat all of this, I can ask Steve to get us more.”

That said, he should probably eat some himself, just to make sure he does not get sick himself. That is a completely sensible precaution and has nothing to do with emptying the pot more quickly.

And Peter, bless this beautiful child, looks at the soup with disdain but picks up the spoon and dutifully eats the whole bowl, even though he falls back against his pillow afterwards, already half asleep again after this effort.

“Try to sleep, yes?” Tony says afterwards, gathering up their cards so that Peter can lie down completely again. “I’ll be here whenever you need me. Just call.”

Smiling, Peter glances up at him. “I know, Dad. Don’t throw the rest of the soup away so you can bother Mr. Neighbour again. I’ll eat it.”

Tony wonders whether he is this transparent. It is more likely that Peter simply knows him by now. “You’ll be one hell of a heartbreaker one day,” Tony sighs, thinking that this should not feel as much like an accomplishment as it does. “You already play the game well.”

Shrugging against the cushions, Peter blinks up at Tony with utter innocence. The effect is somewhat marred by his eyes dropping closed every couple of seconds. “If the soup helps, I can get out of the bed and just tell neighbour Steve that you like him. Otherwise you’ll never get a date.”

“Excuse you? I’ll have you know –” Tony trails off, face softening as he looks down at his son, already fast asleep.

His own eyes feel heavy, exhaustion pulling at his very bones. He has never planned on being a father and it is sometimes grinding him down. Looking at the real miracle Peter is, though, he would not change this for anything.

Smiling, Tony goes to the kitchen to wash out Peter’s bowl. His phone is sitting innocently on the table but calling out to Tony with a might he cannot resists, even if he had wanted to.

Turning on the coffee machine, Tony pulls up Steve’s brand new contact details and writes him a message.

_Thank you for the soup. Peter ate it all and is now asleep_.

It feels insufficient, somehow, but Tony has been overwhelming enough for one day already.

Barely a minute later, his phone chimes with Steve’s answer. _You’re welcome_.

Nothing more. Tony tells himself he is not disappointed by that. He is the one who rejected Steve’s kind offer to help, after all. If everything else fails, he might have to send Peter to get things running again, after all.

* * *

The next day, around noon, the doorbell rings again. Peter is doing much better and they have both gotten a full night’s sleep, which has gone a long way to make them feel human again. Peter has even ventured out of his room to lie on the couch, where they are currently watching Lion King – which Tony will never admit he knows all the lyrics for.

Disentangling from his blanket, Tony gets up to open the door. Later, he will deny having hoped it would be Steve, but when he comes face to face with their neighbour _again_, he cannot help the smile spreading on his face.

“Steve,” he greets, wondering whether he should tone down the enthusiasm. Hakuna matata is running in the background, though, and Tony is not going to dismiss advice from Disney.

“Hey. I don’t want to disturb,” Steve says as if that is a real possibility. “How’s Peter doing?”

“Much better,” Tony exclaims, and there is no exaggerating the relief he feels. “Thank you again.”

Right now, Tony is convinced that it is only thanks to their interaction yesterday that Tony had the energy to keep his sanity intact instead of doing something utterly crazy like going back to the hospital and threaten to purchase it so he can fire everybody who tells him that Peter has a simple cold and just needs to rest. Pepper often tells him he tends to overreact when it comes to people he cares for, and there is no one more important in his life than Peter.

“No problem,” Steve replies simply. His smile turns sympathetic. “I remember this well.”

Tony does not know what to say to that, so they stand awkwardly across from each other. This is the point where he should get the pot to hand it back over and leave Steve be. Being too much of a bother never ends well. Yet, he never seems able to stop.

“I – would you – I mean –”

“He wants to go on a date with you.”

Peter appears out of nowhere, pushing Tony slightly to the side so he can fit into the doorway too. He is wearing Spider-Man pyjamas and has a blanket slung around his shoulders. For all that he has been close to falling asleep only moments before when they were still on the couch, he looks very awake right now, and very interested. He stares up at Steve, at once critical and smiling. Tony has to swallow the urge to reach down and put his hands over Peter’s mouth.

“Peter,” Tony warns. At Steve, he adds, “Ignore him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Fever dreams, you know.”

Apart from raising his eyebrow, Steve does not respond. Instead, he leans down a bit and offers a hand for Peter to shake, which Peter accepts with newfound energy.

“Hello, young man. I’m Steve,” he greets seriously, as if he is constantly being accosted by noisy kids.

“I know,” Peter says with a smile too knowing to belong on such a young face.

Tony knows what is coming. Something along the lines of _my dad never shuts up about you_, and he has to keep that from happening. “Don’t be rude,” he says firmly and puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Craning his neck to look up, Peter frowns. “You weren’t going to ask him. _Again_.”

Acutely aware of Steve watching them, Tony shakes his head minutely, inwardly begging his son to stop. “And that’s my decision to make.”

“You’re afraid,” Peter exclaims, the first signs of irritation showing in his tone.

That is enough, Tony decides, and pushes Peter back into their apartment, allowing him not to struggle.

“Get back to the living room,” he says firmly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Because Peter is unmistakeably Tony’s son, he does not leave without getting a last comment in. “Take two. You need to agree on a restaurant after all.”

Unable to meet Steve’s eyes so soon, Tony watches Peter walk back into the apartment, more of a spring in his step than he had in days. That is making Tony happy of course, but he still cannot shake the embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters and runs a hand through his hair before he can stop himself.

“What for?” Steve asks, honestly curious. “He’s delightful.” Just like that, he proves again that he is a thoroughly good human being who does not only bring strangers soup but also lets Tony hit on him via Peter without getting annoyed.

“That’s not a word anyone should ever use for a kid,” Tony replies dryly. “Especially not one with a running nose and a big mouth.”

He cannot quite hide the fondness in his voice, and when he finally looks back up at Steve, they share a smile.

Then Steve shifts his position and looks slightly awkward. “Well, is it true?”

There is only one thing he could be asking about, but Tony does not dare to think about that. “Is what true?” he asks back, trying for innocence.

Something in his tone or face seems to bolster Steve, because he stands a little straighter and does not look away from Tony. “That you want to ask me out on a date.”

Tony bites his lip to keep himself from yelling _yes_. Instead, he concentrates on a point past Steve’s shoulder and tries to force the blood rushing into his cheeks to return where it belongs.

“I – I’m truly sorry,” Tony says. He is going to ground Peter forever if he has just messed up Tony’s chances even more – at least after they have moved somewhere else, preferably another state to minimize the danger of ever running into Steve again. “I’m afraid I’m not a good role model when it comes to social norms and –”

“Yes,” Steve cuts him off simply, causing Tony to splutter.

He is aware that his behaviour is not always suitable for polite company, but people usually do not call him out on it like this, do not simply agree with him.

“What?” he asks dumbly.

And Steve, in a show of eternal patience, smiles. “If you meant to ask, I’m saying yes.”

Even Tony’s constantly racing and slightly self-sabotaging mind does not find a way to somehow twist these words into meaning something other than Steve agreeing to go out with Tony. Even after close scrutiny, he does not even see any pity on Steve’s face. It is hardly believable, but Steve appears to be serious.

“You – do?” Tony asks nonetheless, unwilling to run headfirst into a trap.

Steve nods, his smile growing wider. “The two minutes are up,” he then says, obvious humour in his tone. “How about next Tuesday? We’ll text later, so you can tell me whether you’ll find a babysitter.”

Mind a mess of conflicted emotions, Tony still realizes that Steve has immediately thought of Peter and that he cannot be left alone an entire evening – which has Tony’s thoughts drifting off to wonder just how long Steve might want their dinner to take.

“I – yes,” Tony exclaims quickly before he lose himself in speculations and forgets all about reality. “Yes. That would be great.”

“Perfect,” Steve says. “And tell me if you need more soup.”

“Will do.”

Only when Steve has already disappeared back into his own apartment does Tony remember the pot sitting freshly cleaned on his kitchen table. Well, that gives him an excuse to visit Steve again later.

Feeling the urge to whistle, Tony closes the door and walks back to the living room. He is going to have a long talk with Peter about appropriate topic of conversation. But perhaps after that date with Steve – a _date_ – depending on how it works out. First, he is going to get them two bowls of ice cream – that is supposed to help with sore throats – to go along with the rest of Lion King.

Then, as soon as Peter is asleep, he is going to make sure that Darcy will be available to watch Peter on Tuesday, even if he has to pay her double. He is not going to miss this chance.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Find me on [tumblr](https://blancheludis.tumblr.com/) to chat if you want to.


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